


jasmine and white tea

by Chierei



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Breathplay, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Pegging, Sexual Fantasy, Unhealthy Relationships, yeah you read those tags right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24360325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chierei/pseuds/Chierei
Summary: Oswald closes his eyes and pretends it is Ed.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma, Oswald Cobblepot/Sofia Falcone
Comments: 18
Kudos: 57





	jasmine and white tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yanderebeats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yanderebeats/gifts).



> Heed the tags.

Oswald didn’t know how it had come to this. Maybe it had started that first lunch at the restaurant, when the taste of his mother’s goulash, thick and heavy with sweet paprika, hit his tongue. Or maybe it was when he let her kneel in front of him, her delicate fingers rubbing gentle circles into his ruined ankle as she hummed under her breath.

The time in-between was a blur, but now...now all Oswald could feel was the sleek satin sheets under his fingertips and the silk covering his eyes.

The first time she had leaned in to kiss him, he had been frozen—too shocked to react with anything more than a sharp inhale. It was only when her hair, long and silken and smelling of white tea leaves and jasmine, brushed his cheek that he recoiled.

It hadn’t been his first kiss—not even his first kiss with a woman. That honor had been taken— _stolen_ —by Fish in the early days of his employ, when she’d brush her long stiletto nails against his cheek and then press her lips, painted with blood-red lipstick, against his. It hadn’t taken them both long to realize that his preferences lay away from the female form, but that hadn’t stopped Fish from pulling him close on occasion, and he, so young and naive still, had been helpless to do anything but let her.

Sofia’s lips were so much like Fish’s—soft and smooth and the barest hint of tacky lip gloss and the taste of cherries. They felt nothing like the men he had kissed—tall and broad men with chapped lips and the hint of nicotine on their breaths, and kissing Sofia was nothing like he’d imagine Ed’s kissing to be like—who he pictured to taste of spearmint and eucalyptus—and maybe that was why he hadn’t killed her then and there.

Her eyes had been so kind when she pulled away, and Oswald only then noticed that his eyes had been wide open the entire time—the kiss lasting the barest second but feeling like an eternity. She hadn’t apologized; she hadn’t said much of anything at all, actually. She had just brushed another kiss, just as sticky with her lip gloss, onto his cheek and reminded him about their dinner plans.

The second time she had tried to kiss him though, he had recoiled, because this wasn’t...he wasn’t—

He still didn’t know why he let her continue living though—why instead of pushing her away, he just said that it felt wrong.

That it wasn’t what he liked.

And instead of backing away, she had kneeled in front of him and asked him what he did like.

Oswald shivered as he felt Sofia run a gloved hand down his spine, her touch light and barely ghosting over the bumps of his vertebrae. He felt vulnerable, exposed, spread out naked on the bed on his hands as knees as he pictured that it was Ed behind him—Ed touching his skin and pressing feathering kisses across his shoulders.

He knew it was Sofia—even after he had insisted that she change her perfume with its hints of sea salt and orchids, to the spicier scent of orange rind and cabernet that always reminded him of Ed. There was no way to forget it, even with the blindfold or the way Sofia never spoke and changed her perfume and pulled her hair back and wore leather gloves.

But it made it so much easier for him to pretend that it wasn’t her and that it was Ed, _always_ Ed, with him.

Ed, who would have placed a pillow under his bad leg and would only touch it when necessary. Ed, who would have pulled his arms behind him so gently, tying his wrists together with a silk scarf and who’d ask, so softly, too softly to where his voice was just a few octaves too high, if it was comfortable.

Oswald nodded into the sheets, eyes squeezed shut even behind the blindfold.

He startled when he felt a hand wrap around his cock, only half-hard but twitching as long fingers gently pumped him. Oswald wriggled, disquieted because it wasn’t right—it wasn’t—

He yelped, involuntarily, at the fierce slap to his left asscheek, the sound startling him more than the momentary flash of pain. But something about it—the sudden harshness, the strike that was tinged with perceived anger and roughness—made the voice deep inside go quiet.

The hand caressed him in the aftermath, gentle, rubbing against his flesh as though in apology before striking him again. Oswald couldn’t suppress the groan at each strike, and he knew he was hard, could feel his cock bob against his stomach as he hardened with each smack, could feel himself leak, and he wanted—he needed—

Someone shushed him and pressed something, slick with warmed lube, against the edge of his entrance, and Oswald shifted, spreading his legs further out. He could feel the sting of one asscheek, and it only made it better when one slim finger slipped inside him.

Ed’s fingers would be long—so long and perfect and stretching him. He’d be looking at Oswald through his glasses, eyes dark and possessive as he fingered him open, preparing Oswald to take his cock.

Oswald didn’t know if he wanted him to be rough—didn’t know if it would be better or worse for Ed to treat him gently, softly, or to treat him as a vehicle for his own pleasure, to take what he wanted from Oswald and leave the pieces behind to be discarded like pieces of trash blowing in the wind.

When he felt something—when he felt Ed, he told himself—enter him, he forced himself to breathe through the pain, the unimaginable stretch of taking something—someone, he corrected—in himself. It was big; it always felt so big as it pushed into him, the slow drag of the head brushing against his prostate and making him shiver and squirm, making him bite his lip as he pressed his face deeper into the sheets. A hand sat on his hip, and he heard murmuring, the sounds of wordless encouragement pitched low.

“Ed,” Oswald murmured, low and barely above a whisper as though a secret, his dirty shameful secret.

And it was though the one syllable unleashed something, because he felt whatever was inside him, felt _Ed_ withdraw as though in reward for his plea, before slamming back inside him, scraping his inside so perfectly. It hurt as much as it felt good, the burn and scrape and feeling of being so full.

“Ed, please,” Oswald said, louder this time as he tried to rock back onto his cock. He pictured how Ed would look behind him and the jut of his cock pressed deep inside Oswald. He wouldn’t have bothered to undress for Oswald, just pulling his cock out from that horrendous green suit and hands still covered in black leather gloves as he plowed into Oswald.

The thought—the image—made Oswald only harder, and he whined, whimpered, begged for it. Oswald mewled when he felt the cock withdraw from him, the hard, cold, unyielding cock. The feeling of being turned on his back almost was enough to break the fantasy—the feeling of small hands and thin muscles that lacked Ed’s bulk trying to twist him around—but Oswald pushed it out of his mind, focused on the image of Ed holding him open with a knee in each hand and pressing his cock, warm and leaking and wet, back inside Oswald, and it was enough. It was enough, for now, to be split open again, to be spread open for Ed to gaze at, to feel wanted.

When a hand was pressed against his throat, too short and clad in leather, Oswald didn’t do anything except arch his back and lift his chin, giving more room to put pressure against his jugular.

Ed did always love a neck.

Ed’s face as he fucked Oswald, as he pressed one hand against his throat and squeezing—the memory of Ed knotting Oswald’s ties and pressing it against his throat, of the way he had looked at Oswald when he had tied him down to that car, the way that Oswald could feel light-headed as he tried to gasp—

It was enough. The lack of air and the scrape of a cock—however good or bad of a facsimile as it might have been—made Oswald come with a scream and a sob as his orgasm was wrung out of him.

He felt like he was floating in a fog, everything dimmed and feeling as though his mind was filled with plush cotton as he felt them withdraw, felt the lashings of the scarf loosen around his wrists, and the blindfold fell away. He kept his eyes closed—he didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see, didn’t want to break his fantasy and see what the reality was—what pitiful and lonely substitute he had allowed.

He let Sofia tuck him into bed and tried to ignore the smell of jasmine and white tea that lingered in the aftermath.

**Author's Note:**

> As with most things, this is yandere's fault. This is what happens when someone talks to me about Sofia pegging Oswald who is pretending it is Ed. It hit all of the right buttons with me--Sofia being a stone-cold bitch who will do anything to get ahead and Oswald being so desperate for any sort of affection that he allows her to manipulate him. 
> 
> Thank you [yandere](https://twitter.com/tropotropotropo) who also drew some [wonderful accompanying art](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/684185258844880937/732039941449580625/464bc680-7d42-4710-9502-899c198bc91f.png)!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed and made it this far despite any misgivings! <3 As always, you guys can come chat with me on [Tumblr](http://chierei.tumble.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Chierrei) to scream about our idiots. 
> 
> Please take a moment to drop a comment if you enjoyed!


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